That Mistletoe Moment (11 page)

Groomed to take over Hayes Global Financiers, the kid in him had sat in the corner until now. Riley had seen his need to play. The train was the perfect gift.

He'd promised to pick the present that spoke to him. The express chugged, whistled, choo-chooed, making the sounds of Christmas. He circled his desk, stood behind it. He leaned his palms on the edge so the train track was within the stretch of his fingers. He suspended his thoughts, his decision, as he watched it pass, once, twice. The arms on the crossing sign rose and lowered.

He was a logical man. Analytical to a fault. Both Caroline and Lauren had extensive résumés and celebrated clientele. Caroline's attention to the mayor of Saint Paul's suits and ties had landed the politician on the nationwide Capital Cities Best Dressed List. Lauren selected wardrobes for international playboys, movie stars, and sports figures.

He was impressed by the Rolex. The statue would have been more appropriate for a lover than an employer. Still, it was a toss-up between the two.

Then there was Riley. Recently employed by Baby Gap. She had experience with children, but not with adults. Carter's and Gerber were not his style. He momentarily closed his eyes and listened to the chug of the plastic train. It lulled him. There was an uneven link of track where the train went clickety-clack-
crack
. Precarious, but it didn't derail. If the train could hold together, so could he. After all, how hard was it to choose a personal shopper?

The whirl of the wind slammed snowflakes against the arched windows. A menacing sound, causing him to blink. The afternoon sky was midnight dark. The weather was worsening. He needed to send two of the ladies on their way while there was still time for them to clear downtown and reach home safely.

He gazed at the three. Caroline and Lauren were dressed professionally, appropriately, for the position. Riley still wore her coat. She clutched it tightly about her, a protective layer of wool against cold temperatures, him, and disappointment. The office air was dry, and strands of her dark blond hair stuck out from static electricity. Hope shone in her blue eyes, tempered by acceptance that he would probably choose another.

“Why do you want this job?” he questioned her. Her response would be the deciding factor.

“I need to grow my life.” Her words sounded more like an admission than an answer.

She wanted to mature.

He wanted to play with trains.

They would meet in the middle.

His inner child made the decision for him. “Caroline, Lauren, I appreciate your interest in the position. I've decided to hire Riley.”

Caroline's expression tightened.

Lauren's mouth pinched.

Riley was disbelieving.

He next dialed Security, alerting the guards to the fact that two ladies were on their way down. He requested they be safely escorted to their vehicles in the parking garage.

Caroline had the class to shake hands; pass him the watch. She glanced at Riley, and he swore she rolled her eyes before wishing him well.

Lauren's huff and stiff spine walked her out. She set the sculpture on a bookshelf near the door.

The women returned to the conference room for their coats.

His suite was suddenly so quiet, Daniel could hear himself breathe. Could feel the beat of his heart. Overly fast. For a man of authority, quick judgment, and action, he was suddenly lost for words. He waited for her to speak. To thank him for the job. She did not.

Instead she bit down on her bottom lip and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Questioning my choice?” He was taken aback.

“Why me?” she asked, sounding vulnerable.

She'd bought him a simple plastic train, and coaxed him out to play. He'd liked feeling six. Finance was serious business, and he'd followed in his father's footsteps when it came to the intensity with which he pursued it. He was a Hayes. Long hours, little social life, unless it was business related. He kept his head high. His jaw tight. Focused.

Until Riley. She wasn't perfect for the position. Far from it, but he'd take his chances. He flicked the switch on the train's engine and watched it pull to a stop before the station. He picked up the post office from the figure eight, palmed it. Procrastinating.

“You have potential,” he finally managed.

“You're handing your wardrobe over to a shopper with potential? Dangerous, don't you think? I could dress you like a clown.”

A clown would be preferable to Judith and her vengeful scissors spree. He was objective. “You're out to prove yourself. You'll do your best by me. I meet and am seen by hundreds of people every month. Your name will be noticed along with the labels you choose.”

She let it sink in. “Custom-made by Brooks Brothers, chosen by Riley.” She scrunched her nose. “I don't always buy designer.” She pointed to the toy train. “Not Lionel, O gauge, or Thomas the Train. It's plastic Value Mart.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “You didn't break my bank.” The other two applicants had overspent. To impress him. They had not. They'd taken advantage of him. Of his wealth. He'd developed an early discipline that was very lean and mean in terms of spending money. The Rolex and sculpture would be regifted. Or perhaps auctioned at a charity event.

“You'll need to set up an appointment with Stella Mayer in Accounts Payable. She'll explain my clothing account. You're free to buy anywhere. My only request, don't skimp on my underwear. My preference, Hermès woven boxers. Front pleat and separate storage pouch.”

A hint of a blush. “Your boxers . . .” She sounded uncertain.

“You'll be dressing me skin-out.”

“I . . . knew that.”

No, she had not. He almost smiled. He was dealing with a virgin personal shopper. He sensed she would manage his formal suits, shirts, and ties just fine. She'd have no problem with his casual attire. His pajamas and underclothes . . . to be determined.

Thickening snow and a wailing wind now beat against the glass. He looked out and couldn't see the high-rise across the street. A flash of lightning lit up the room, causing Riley to jump. Seconds later, thunder boomed. Thundersnow. Rare, dangerous, and leading to reduced visibility. The wintry blast was about to hold them hostage. They needed to leave the building. Immediately.

Too late. A knock on the office door, and they were interrupted by a security guard. “George,” he acknowledged.

“I wanted to give an update on the weather, sir, ma'am,” he added, including Riley. His gaze was curious.

“My new personal shopper,” Daniel said to clarify. “George, meet Riley Tyler. George has secured the building for as long as I can remember.”

“A pleasure,” said Riley.

“All mine,” from George.

“We were on our way out,” Daniel told the guard.

“Sorry, but it's no longer safe for you to leave. The storm hit faster than expected. Harder than anticipated. Possibly the worst blizzard in twenty years. The city's at a standstill. Transportation, including air travel, has shut down. Law enforcement's restricted all but emergency vehicles.”

Riley startled. “We're stuck here?”

“Until the brunt of the storm passes,” said George.

“Passes . . .” she repeated.

“I've taken a head count, and there are two bankers, an attorney, and a techno team on lower floors who will also be spending the night,” George informed them. “They'll be bedding down on office sofas. Hopefully, the electricity will hold, and we'll have heat.”

“Heat . . .” Riley's tone hinted of panic.

“You'll be fine,” George reassured. Then, tongue in cheek, he added, “You're inside, safe, even if the snow drifted thirty floors.”

“Safe . . .” She didn't sound relieved.

“I'll check on you later, sir.”

Daniel searched his coat pocket for his iPhone. Started to text his mother. “Anyone you need to reach, before we lose connectivity?”

“I should check my messages.” She settled on a club chair, searched her purse for her phone. She mumbled something he didn't understand.

“Pardon?” He wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to herself.

“I had three messages from my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” caught his attention.

“Andrew Reynolds,” she told him. “He's a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders,” she relayed. She tapped the screen on her iPhone, moving to the next message. “He's headed out on a mission. Planes were delayed due to the weather, but he managed to catch the last international flight out.” She sighed her relief. “He's in the air.” She went on to check her remaining texts. Sent a few responses.

She was involved with a physician. Somehow that didn't surprise Daniel too much. The man treated children, and she had worked at Baby Gap. Kids all around them.

“Did you tell Andrew that you're stuck in the city? Where you'll be spending the night?” he questioned. Would Andrew care that she'd be crossing midnight with another man? However platonic the situation.

She shook her phone. Glared at the screen. “Dead,” she said. “I was only able to tell him I had a new job. No more.”

“Where's he headed? How long will he be out of the country?”

“Nigeria. One month.”

“What happens to his practice when he's gone?”

She took a moment to respond, longer than seemed necessary. She was involved with the doctor. The answer should be simple. She finally said, “He's established at the Saint Paul Medical Center when he's in town. A medical partnership. Other doctors see his patients when he's away.”

“He's gone a lot?”

Pensive once again. Time stretched. “Eight months out of the year, give or take.”

“Engagement in your future?”

“This spring . . . sometime.”

“Long-distance relationships aren't easy.”

“We've made it work.”

“For how long?”

Pause. “Two years.”

He shrugged. “Whatever works for you.” He should've been relieved that Riley had a significant other. It would prevent a repeat of the Judith disaster. Yet there was a heaviness on his chest, a tightness to his gut. Uncommon. Unexpected. Unexplainable. A first for him.

He shrugged off his dark suit coat and draped it over the back of his desk chair. He next loosened his tie. Undid the top button on his white dress shirt. Pushed his sleeves up his forearms. He drew a deep breath, released it. The tension didn't leave him. Instead it expanded. Like a stretched rubber band.

“Take off your coat,” he suggested. “You might as well be comfortable. We're here for the duration.”

“How long is the snowstorm expected to last?”

“Longer than you want to wear your coat.”

He managed to make her smile. A small smile that had her shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the brass coat hanger near the door, beneath the railroad caps. She looked nice in a cream-colored sweater and brown slacks. She fingered a loose thread on her sweater, gave a tug. It only lengthened. She tucked it beneath the hem. Saddle shoes? He'd only just noticed them. Did they bespeak a Catholic school background or cheerleading? Perhaps a fashion statement. He had no idea. They seemed to fit her.

“The blizzard should ease by morning,” he went on to say. “But then it will take some time for the streets to be cleared.”

“Do I stay here with you?”

He nodded. “A good idea. George would prefer you didn't wander the building. You don't want to get stuck in an elevator if we lose electricity.”

“No, I don't,” she agreed.

Riley moved toward the bookshelf. She stood and stared at its contents, debating which one to choose. She ran her fingertips over the spines. Scrunched her nose. None appealed. “
International Financial Management, The Blue Chips,
and
Global Money and Finance
.” She read several titles. “Sounds like heavy reading.”

“Not always reader-friendly. More an intellectual exercise. The subject matter can be dry.”

“How many books have you consumed?”

“On my own, dozens. Although my father read them to me as bedtime stories.”

“Not your usual fairy tale.”

“Happy endings came with deeper deficit spending.” She looked blank, so he explained, “It's a fiscal policy tool to help stimulate an economy in recession.”

“Got it.” But she hadn't. Her eyes glazed over.

“What authors do you enjoy?” He found conversation easy with her.

“Those who write mystery cozies, mostly. Light, curl-up-on-the-couch-with-a-cup-of-hot-chocolate mysteries. I like the red herrings, and often solve the murder before the end.”

He raised a brow. “Red herrings?”

“Something that appears to be a clue but in fact is not.”

He knew what they were. Giving her a chance to explain put them on even footing. He wanted her relaxed around him. Talking mysteries seemed to put her at ease. “I remember my mother reading Agatha Christie. Jessica Fletcher,
Murder, She Wrote
.”

“Both wonderful. The book bin at Goodwill often has used copies.”

She didn't buy her books new. A sign of her finances? Was she just frugal or low on cash? His stare must have given his thoughts away, because her cheeks heated. She responded with, “Frugal. I read several books a week so I'm always looking for deals.”

“Smart on your part.”

“Not everything has to be brand new. Books, clothes, I've bought used or vintage. Everywhere from pawn shops to garage sales. I think of it as recycling. That's good for the planet.”